Old Enemies... (S/X)

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Part 6

He didn't need the money the man was offering; that was just the plain truth. Some careful and not so careful investments over the last five years had turned his six million into close to ten times that. It was the job itself that appealed to him.

Stand around and look pretty. Let people take a few pictures. Maybe sign 'Spark' to a piece of paper or two. Simple. Easy. No drama, no trauma, nothing to make him think about anything but whatever city or town he was going to next.

Yeah, he could do that. He could do that stone drunk and with half a brain cell.

He figured he'd feel guilty about leaving his city and the humans who so obviously needed him, but then again, he'd be back often enough that things shouldn't get too out of control.

He'd meant to pick up the books he'd been told about, but the only all night book shop had been out of most of them and he hadn't wanted to start a series out of order. Besides, since he was meeting Elliot and his client tonight, he figured he could hit them up for free copies.

Just because he had money didn't mean he shouldn't get things for free, he figured. Hell, look at that Hilton bint. Millions of dollars and she still got free designer clothes. He figured she needed them because after seeing her sex tape nobody would want to put up with her clumsiness. She’d need every penny just to catch herself a bloke… or a chit, whatever the dozy mare wanted. Besides, he'd never been overly enthused about blondes, his little obsession with the Slayer-that-was aside.

Spike frowned and shook his head. "Stop thinkin' about that bunch," he grated out to himself as he finished getting dressed. "They're all dead an' gone. It's just you left, mate. You an' your soddin' ghosts."

He forced himself to think about the coming meeting with the bloke from last night and the one who did all the writing. Apparently the man's work was good and popular, judging by the web search he'd done earlier. There were whole websites dedicated just to him and his stories.

If the sun hadn't been coming up, he might have checked a few out, but he'd been tired and once he'd dealt with his usual pre-sleep erection he'd gone to bed.

He finished tying his boots and headed for his private elevator. Money didn't mean much to him but it definitely made things easier. It had gotten him his penthouse, complete with the elevator and the rooftop garden of night-blooming flowers that appealed to the poet in him. Not that he would ever admit that with his soul he'd gotten a good bit of William back. He was still the Big Bad, after all. He just did good, more often than not.

"Out for the night," he announced as he passed the bloke on the front desk of the building. "Any callers can be expunged." Spike smirked, knowing how much Andy liked telling people to leave. Bitter fellow, but good at his job. He was sure there was a story there, but he really didn't care enough to find out.

He sat in the back of the cab watching the neon flash by as they got closer and closer to the club.

Spike found himself thinking about Elliot. For some reason, he trusted the human and that should bother him. Regardless of the fact that he helped humans on a near nightly basis, he knew just how quickly they could go from thankful to mean. Still, Elliot he trusted almost implicitly.

It might have something to do with the way the bloke smelled, he figured. There had been a very subtle, underlying scent to the man. Spike didn't know what it was but it had somehow been... comforting, perhaps. Or maybe the bloke just smelled like something Spike couldn't remember. That was even more likely.

Either way, maybe he'd have a chance to figure it out tonight, between finding the guy in the crowded bar and having to suck up to the undoubtedly uptight author who'd probably want him to change his hair or accent or something. Humans got odd when they got successful. He'd seen that a million times in the last hundred and some-odd years. He doubted this writer git was any different.
He got out of the cab when it stopped a few doors down from the entrance to the bar and tossed a few crumpled up tens at the driver. "Ta, mate... have a good night. An' you might want ta clean your gun. It stinks ta high heaven. Fired it, what... two days ago now?"

Spike smirked to himself as the driver peeled away. He so loved shocking people sometimes. And if the cops pulled the bloke over, an obviously recently used gun would get him in some sort of trouble, especially considering the faint smell of blood that had still been in the cab.

He straightened his t-shirt just a bit, not wanting to admit even to himself how much he wanted this job. "Please let this bloke think I'm as bleedin' perfect as bloody Elliot does," he murmured, not sure anyone was listening or would care if they were. "I'm bloody well tired of bein' me."

That last part surprised him. How could he be tired of himself?

Well, maybe it was just that he was tired of the so-called life he'd carved from the wreckage of his earlier life. Yeah... that must be it, he figured. All the responsibility of being the head of the Aurelius line. Even without any others left, he still had to present himself a certain way. He was all that was left. How his line was perceived rested entirely and squarely on his shoulders, and... it was a wearying burden some days.

Most days, if he were going to be honest. But not right then, he decided, because he had a writer to meet, and... well, he had the right to a bit of fun, damn it.

Yeah. Couple drinks, find himself a hot, tight brunette to take home, seeing as that hadn't quite worked out the night before.
He patted the back pocket of his jeans and smiled. He had the eye patch and was for bloody well sure going to find someone to wear it for him.

Spike smirked slightly as he strolled through the door, the bouncer and doorman both nodding him through without paying the cover. He didn't notice the bit of prowl in his stride but the other guys at the club surely did.

A silent knowledge crept through the room. The mystery man was back and he was on the hunt.

The posturing and preening of a good half of the patrons went unnoticed by the object of their attentions, however, because that was when Spike's nostrils flared as he caught that Elliot-scent again, stronger this time.

He followed it through the crowd, brushing past anyone who tried to delay him until finally he found him.

"Elliot," Spike said, then blinked at the sight of what the man was wearing, not to mention the fact that he was kneeling on the floor. He laughed low and throatily. "Like a bit of th' rough, do you, pet?" He cocked his head to the side, eyes traveling from the tousled blond hair down to the collar and leash, tracing the straps of the harness the man wore which showed off his shaved skin. "Smooth as a baby's neck... or bottom, as the case may be," Spike muttered before letting his gaze continue down over the thin cotton trousers and simple shoes.

Elliot blushed just a little, trying not to preen under the way Will was looking at him. "I... sometimes," he admitted with a sheepish shrug.

Well, well... and maybe the writer he was here to meet wouldn't be as uptight as he'd thought, considering this was how his agent came to a meeting.

Spike smirked and reached down, stroking the soft blond head of hair lightly. "Sometimes, 'ey?" He chuckled. "If I'd known that last night, pet... might be neither one of us would have gone home alone. I could overlook you being blond, if… You don't have a problem with wearin' an eye patch, do you?" It was more a statement than a question, but either way it wouldn't be responded to because that was when the voice came from behind Spike.

"Hey! NO touching what isn't yours. I may have to demand an apology."

The platinum haired body froze solid. He knew that voice. He couldn't know that voice, but he did. That voice was DEAD! Had been dead for far too long, and now... now it was sounding again and he was being haunted but this time while he was awake and he couldn't take it, not for even an instant and...

"I'm sorry," he almost whimpered before running towards the men's room without even turning around to see how much it wasn't who it sounded like. He'd finally gone round the bend, just like poor Dru. Only he wouldn't subject anyone to looking after him. He had too much of a soul to put anyone through that, especially with knowing how it felt.

He leaned his head against the cool tile wall of the men's room stall and shuddered.

There was only one thing to do. The question was... sunlight or a quick stake.